


Hold out, and do I like I do

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Earth, F/F, F/M, M/M, Sibling Incest, instafic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: <i>Luke &/or Leia, queer siblings who kiss each other sometimes?</i></p><p>1970s AU, more a sketch than a full story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold out, and do I like I do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/gifts).



> title from the execrable "When I Need Love" by Leo Sayer

She gets home earlier than she'd expected, dropping pieces of her outfit as she moves through the apartment - first the platform sandals, then her windbreaker, earrings and bangles, finally her Jordache cutoffs (she can breathe, at long last), so by the time she collapses on the couch and kicks her aching feet up, there's a trail of sparkly things behind her and she's just wearing panties and her shiny-sequined halter top. She wiggles her toes and stretches as she snuggles back into the swaybacked couch, slowly unpinning her braids and starting to undo them.

No lights are on anywhere in the apartment. Everything's silent and soft around the edges. It's like sitting amidst TV static, silvery-blue and full of motion.

Now she wants a beer. But she's comfortable and the blisters on her feet are _finally_ quieting down.

Han shouts - down the hall, in Luke's room - and she jumps, then drops heavily back down, pissed now, and tense. He shouts again, there's a crash and first Luke's door slams, then heavy boots thud, then the front door slams, too. Nothing to freak out over, just Solo the drama queen, making a grand exit in high dudgeon.

Everything goes quiet again, but it's still tense. Just the absence of noise, like a winter morning is the absence of heat.

Soon enough, however, Luke puts a record on and turns it all the way up. She told him she'd break it, and possibly his stereo too, if she had to hear fucking Leo Sayer _or_ Glen Campbell again, but she supposes she'll let it slide this time. She's not due home and, anyway, god knows what bullshit Han pulled tonight.

She gets up, flicks on the little TV and cranks through the dial. The late movie is just starting - demon beach bunnies of Catalina! - that's how early she is.

He plays "When I Need You" seven times, and four surfers get dragged into the underbrush in the movie, before Luke wanders down the hall. The light from his room paints a gold outline around him.

"No Sana?" he asks, passing into the tiny kitchen.

"No Solo?" she replies.

He comes back and leans against the little piece of the wall the juts out, dividing living room from kitchen. He inclines his head, wearing a sad little smile, acknowledging her point. 

She lifts up the edge of the afghan, inviting him in.

"I'm going to make something to eat, you want?"

"Beer," she says and he makes a face.

"Go to hell," she tells him, " _you_ didn't get stood up, then have to run into your ex dancing with some Orange County deb airhead."

"No, it's just the taste --" he starts to say. His usual objection - somehow he can put his mouth all over penises, but God forbid he taste some sweet Schlitz head. "Wait, Evaan?"

"What? No." Leia refolds her arms across her chest and studies the latest spookiness developing in the movie. "We don't say that name, you know the rule."

Luke frowns. "You said your ex --"

"Sana," she says. "I meant Sana."

He's an angel. He's a shaggy, golden-haired Zen-master, est-graduate angel of love and calm. Maybe she'd be calm, too, if she'd grown up with him.

But at least she gets him now.

He gets it, immediately, his expression downshifting from befuddlement to sympathy and concern. He ducks into the kitchen, then reappears almost immediately with the last two beers of a six-pack dangling from the plastic rings. He hands her both, then settles next to her, arm across the back of the couch behind her.

"Orange County deb, huh?"

Leia raises the can in a mock-toast. "At least her taste is consistent."

"It's her loss," he says softly.

Leia snorts as she pops open the can and takes a long thirsty swallow. "Oh, absolutely. She seemed totally devastated, just at such loose ends, with her hands under that chick's skirt and tongue down her throat."

He touches the half-unlaced braid, stroking it, then starting to undo it the rest of the way. He's a lot gentler than she is with herself.

"And Han?" she asks. "What pea's sticking under princess's bed tonight?"

Luke sighs. "It's complicated. He's --"

"He is _not_ complicated," she says. "He's about as complicated as this beer. No, this beer is a lot more complicated." She finishes the can, as if that helps her point.

Luke hums a little as he runs his fingers up her hair, tugging out tangles and smoothing out the snarls. 

It takes so much to make him angry, to get him even within shouting distance of saying an unkind word. 

So she takes up his slack.

She's happy to do it. All the more so when it's about a lanky hormone case with maybe three brain cells to rub together who's holding Luke's heart in his big, goofy hands and _doesn't even know_ , let alone care.

"You're not mad at Han," Luke says, reaching for her other braid, uncoiling it, letting it fall against the back of her neck.

"Oh, I'm mad at Han," Leia replies and opens the second beer. "I'm mad at Han, and Sana, and She Whose Name We Don't Say, and _me_ , I'm very mad at me, and the landlord --"

"What about me?"

She leans over to set the can down safely, then wiggles until she's leaning against the couch's arm. Luke's profile is all shaggy hair, wisps and waves catching the light and glowing, then the fuzz on his cheek.

"Nope," she says. "You're safe, you know that."

When he smiles, one dimple gets deeper than the other. "You shouldn't be mad at yourself, either."

"Oh, well --" Leia finger-combs the back of his hair. It's a little damp, still, at his scalp. "Keeps me on my toes."

"You'll find her," he says, pulling her hair over her shoulder and smoothing his palm over it. "She's out there."

"Just the one?" She pouts theatrically. "Boring."

Laughing, Luke pulls her over, kissing the crown of her skull and shaking her. "However many beautiful women you want, you're going to get."

She punches his bicep, then grips it to right herself. He leans back, and she tucks herself along his side, arm across his narrow chest, cheek against his.

Luke's fingertips trail up and down her arm, then fiddle idly with the straps on her halter. On the TV, one of the beach bunnies is screaming, white face, huge black oval mouth.

"Weren't you going to make something to eat?" Leia murmurs at the next commercial.

"I'm good," Luke replies, and it's true. His shirt smells like Han's gross motor-oil and suntan-lotion stink, but his neck smells like Luke, Ivory Soap and White Rain shampoo. He shivers a little when she presses her mouth there, then tightens his arm around her.

"You are," she says, pulling him over, kissing his smooth chin, the swell of his bottom lip. Luke's other arm goes around her, he tips her back, kissing her harder, his sigh hitching and hiccupping. This is, as always, weird and unexpected - they never plan for this, never talk about it except obliquely - but _exactly_ right.

They have so much to catch up on.


End file.
